As Meat Loves Salt
by SergeantPixie
Summary: Dean keeps sending Elena salt packets. She gets the message. Weirdly angsty fluff.
**AN: Honestly this was supposed to be so much fluffier than it actually is and I don't even know how I fucked that up tbh. This is weirdly disjointed and snapshot-y, but hopefully it works. Well. Enjoy.**

 **As Meat Loves Salt**

Every other week Elena got a letter. It wasn't really a letter, just an envelope with a piece of paper—one torn from those pads of paper you find in hotel rooms—and a line or two scribbled down, and his name signed at the bottom, like she might not know who was writing her. Dean. That was all. Four letters. She smiled every time. Just an envelope and a sentence or two on hotel stationary.

And salt packets. There were always a couple of salt packets tucked into the envelope, and those made Elena smile most of all.

"That is the sweetest thing," Bonnie murmured to Caroline and the blonde nodded in agreement.

"It's like the most romantic thing since the Notebook," Caroline gushed. Bonnie giggled, but nodded her head. The two girls were seated in the Gilbert's kitchen, drinking tea and watching as Elena reread the few lines Dean managed to scribble down, a soft small on her face, and the salt packets tucked into her palm.

Damon sat across from them, and he couldn't help but stare at them like they'd stepped off the deep end.

"What's romantic about salt packets?" he asked incredulously. The two girls turned to look at him.

Bonnie looked at him with something akin to pity in her eyes. Caroline's own baby blues were widened in disbelief.

"Everything," they answered as one.

* * *

The first time Dean met Elena it was her junior year of college and they were in a cemetery. She was screaming at a gravestone.

Somewhere on the search for their father, Dean and Sam ended up taking a case in Mystic Falls, Virginia. They spent the drive there ridiculing the name choice—it was the kind of name that _begged_ for supernatural hijinks. As was often the case, their investigations took them to the cemetery, and Sam had suggested they split up.

So when Dean came across a young brunette woman screaming incoherent rage—and grief, he would recognize later—he took a moment to reflect on the irony of _him_ being the one to find her. Of the two, Sam was much more suited to deal with a hysterical girl.

Despite her screaming, the tears and utter devastation on her face, Dean could see that she was probably a year or so younger than Sam, and she was very pretty—beautiful, even. Still, there was a split second where he thought about turning around and leaving her to her grief. Then she dropped to her knees and clutched her stomach like she'd taken a physical blow and her screams turned to gasps, and really, even he couldn't walk away from that.

"Christ," he muttered under his breath as he approached her cautiously. "Miss, are you all right?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as soft and unobtrusive as possible.

She started, looking up at him with wide brown eyes. Startled by his sudden appearance, it took her a moment to respond.

"Go to hell," she spat, glaring at him.

He reeled back just a little, surprised at the venom in her voice. Part of him was screaming to get the fuck out of there, but he'd always had a horrible habit of saying the wrong at the wrong time, so before he knew it, he was opening his mouth and inserting his foot into it.

"I do like 'em feisty." He winced internally, wondering why he'd even approached her in the first place.

She blinked at him, her face frozen with disbelief.

"You see a strange girl in a cemetery, screaming and crying at an inanimate object, and you flirt with her?" she asked in disbelief, her voice hoarse from her screams. He winced just a little; ready for whatever verbal assault she was about to throw at him. "Is this some sort of messed up attempt at making me feel better?" she asked, this time she sounded genuinely curious, if not horrified.

He tilted his head, shrugging just a little.

"Did it work?" he asked.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow and smiled almost incredulously. He grinned back, thinking maybe he'd been successful. The smile dropped from her face and she shook her head.

"No," she said with complete sincerity. She didn't start screaming again, and she wiped the tears from her eyes, her gaze fixed on the gravestone in front of her.

Since she wasn't swearing at him, he took it as a good sign and lowered himself to sit down across from her. He stretched his legs out and leaned against a nearby gravestone. He nodded his head toward the one she'd been screaming at. The poor bastard's name was Alaric Saltzman, and he'd died three whole years before. He wondered what had set her off when so much time had already passed.

"So what'd he ever do to you?" he asked casually. She looked away from the tombstone to look at him. She sniffed, her jaw clenched tightly.

"He left us alone," she told him. "We were too young."

He leaned forward, intrigued.

"Us?" he asked.

"My brother and I," she replied. "We were just kids, we didn't have anyone else." She shook her head and added, "We're still too young."

"You don't usually have much of a choice when it comes to that kind of leaving," he pointed out gently.

She shook her head.

"He should've done something," she insisted. "Drank less, died less…" she trailed off. "He should've done something," she repeated solemnly.

He frowned.

"Died less?" he asked. She shook her head, letting out a sobbing laugh.

"It's a long story," she told him, smiling without mirth.

He wanted to ask more questions, but he wasn't sure if he was up for the fight it might take to get the answers. So he steered the conversation in another direction.

"Who was he? Your father or?" he asked.

"My aunt's boyfriend," she told him.

"What happened to your aunt?"

She smirked.

"You're sitting on her," she told him dryly.

He felt a cold shock go down his spine. He turned around to look at the name on the gravestone he'd been leaning against. Jenna Sommers died six months before Alaric Saltzman.

He looked back at her. She was still smirking, her eyes deep and hurting. Still on her knees, she swept her arms out in a tired gesture.

"They're all mine," she told him, referring to the cluster of five gravestones surrounding them.

Shocked into silence, it took Dean a while to regain his voice.

"How old were you, when you lost the first one?"

"Sixteen," she told him. "My parents, we drove off Wickery Bridge."

He paused at the 'we'.

"You were in the car too," he summarized. She nodded solemnly.

"My aunt and uncle died less than a year later, and then Ric was gone within six months." She stared at Alaric's gravestone, her face jarringly calm. "I was barely eighteen years old. Jeremy was seventeen. We just weren't ready, you know? We were too young. We still are."

He considered her, kneeling in the grass, her head bowed, but her spine defiantly upright.

"You're never ready for it," he told her, and she nodded her head in agreement. He held his breath, second-guessing himself for a split second before he spoke again.

"I was almost five when my mom died, my brother Sammy was six months old," he said. She looked over at him then, her eyes brimming with empathy and he could see how easy it would be to drown in her. She was a bottomless pit of empathy—and it was powerful. It was terrifying.

"It never gets any easier," she told him, no need for questions—rhetorical or not—between survivors. He nodded his head in agreement, subconsciously mirroring her earlier action.

She raised herself up off the ground, brushing grass and dirt off her knees, and he rose with her.

"It's the little things, that set you off. You think you're getting better and then suddenly it feels like it was only yesterday that you lost them. You wake up feeling like all your wounds are still fresh," she said meditatively.

"Yeah," he agreed hoarsely. She looked up at him, gave him a tiny half-smile. He grinned back. "So do you normally go around telling all your secrets to strangers in graveyards?" he teased, hoping to lighten the mood.

She shook her head, laughing lightly.

"Those aren't secrets, you could ask anyone in this town and they'd tell you about the poor sad girl with an overflowing plot of dead loved ones," she replied wryly.

"Well that sucks," he said bluntly. She shrugged.

"Perks of the small town life."

He laughed. She smiled at him one last time, and then turned as if she was going to leave.

"What was it this time?" he asked, suddenly overcome with curiosity. But also because he didn't want her to leave just yet. She turned back to look at him, a questioning look on her face. "What set you off this time? Why were you screaming at a dead man?" he asked.

She gave him a weary half-smile.

"I was at the grocery store, I got to the liquor aisle and I reached for a bottle of bourbon like it hadn't been three years since there was a bottle kept in every room." She laughed bitterly. "Truth is, sometimes I still forget they're gone."

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"So you scream at a dead man like he can still hear you?" he asked. She shook her head, smilingly enigmatically.

"Who says the dead can't hear you?"

It sent shivers down his spine and he remembered earlier how she'd accused Alaric of dying too much and suddenly he wondered if she was like him—if she'd seen too many things in the dark too.

Before he could ask she flashed him another smile.

"I've gotta go, it was nice meeting you," she said. He blinked, still half-dumbstruck by his epiphany.

She'd already turned and walked a couple steps by the time his brain caught up to reality.

"Wait," he called after. She turned back again, her face curious and free of impatience. "My brother and I are gonna be here for a couple days," he explained. "What are the chances I'll run into you again, stranger?" he asked.

She smiled.

"It's a small town, so there's a good chance," she told him. "And we're not strangers," she added.

"We're not?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise. She shook her head.

"Oh no, we shared secrets, remember?" she teased. "I'd say we're well on our way to being friends."

He grinned at that, feeling oddly pleased by the idea.

"I don't even know your name, what kind of friend am I?" he pointed out, shaking his head. She smiled.

"I'm Elena," she said.

"I'm Dean," he replied.

* * *

"What took you so long?" Sam asked much later. Mystic Falls wasn't the kind of town with motels or even a proper hotel, but it did have a cute little bed and breakfast run by the ancient Mrs. Flowers. So it was there that the Winchester brothers were staying.

"I met someone," Dean said simply. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Unbelievable," Sam pronounced him. "Even in a cemetery you're still trying to pick up girls?" Sam's disapproval was palpable, but Dean ignored it.

"Actually Sammy, we just talked," Dean contradicted him, leaving out his initial failed attempt at flirting. Sam's eyebrows shot up.

"Really?" Sam asked, disbelief evident in his tone.

"Yes Sam," Dean stressed, "I am capable of being friends with a girl, you know."

Sam laughed at that.

"You don't have friends," Sam pointed out. Dean scoffed.

"Sure I do," he insisted, "Her name is Elena."

"Elena is your friend?" Sam questioned. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Your skepticism is just—touching," he deadpanned.

* * *

 _Sammy fell on his face last night; I think it might've caused an earthquake._

 _-Dean_

The notes were never more than a scribbled line or two. Usually nothing more than a tidbit of information, just something to say so that she'd know he was okay.

 _Had the best apple pie in the world at 3 in the morning in this tiny ass diner in the middle of nowhere. I think the cook sold her soul to the devil for the recipe. Damn worth it though._

 _-Dean_

There was nothing particularly remarkable about them. Just a few jotted lines down on motel stationary, sometimes stamped with the motel's name and then she'd know what state he was in too, and that was nice. Sometimes the paper was nothing more than the gritty newsprint that she bought in large paper pads for Jeremy.

 _Ghost bitch got a good chunk out of my arm with an ax, but I think it's gonna be a pretty cool scar._

 _-Dean_

They weren't personal or secretive; Elena didn't care if Jeremy read them over her shoulder. Sometimes they were as bland as the weather report.

 _It rains too fucking much here. Sammy says hi._

 _-Dean_

Elena kept every last one.

 _Sometimes I think crossing that Virginia state line is the best feeling in the world. Then you open the front door._

 _-Dean_

* * *

For the record, she kissed him first. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it before. He'd pictured it plenty of times—knew it would be perfect, but when it came down to it, he'd never crossed that line.

Still, by everyone's standards, they didn't stay friends for very long. Just like she'd said, it hadn't even taken him a day to run into her, and like she promised, they were friends. She was bitingly funny and her laugh made his stomach do stupid ass somersaults, _and they were never going to stay friends_.

He got to know her—found out she was almost done with her junior year of college, that she was majoring in creative writing, and her brother was an art major. They lived together in their childhood home and were definitely closer than most siblings, but Dean's own relationship with his brother was unusual enough that it didn't seem strange to him at all.

She had a close group of friends, two gorgeous girlfriends—tall, blonde Caroline who planned every town event and headed half of the committees, and was majoring in journalism, and petite, graceful Bonnie who smiled like she knew secrets he could never dream of, and was majoring in history with a special interest in the occult. There were the two brothers, Stefan and Damon who looked at Elena like she was salvation, and Matt and Tyler who were equally likely to challenge Elena to a drinking contest and equally likely to lose spectacularly.

He and Sam had only made three trips back to Mystic Falls over a period of four months before Elena had taken his face in her hand and kissed him on the mouth one night while they were sitting on her back porch. He didn't even have to think before he was sliding his fingers into her perfect fucking hair and kissing her like she was the air in his lungs.

For the record, the kiss _was_ perfect.

When they pulled apart, he couldn't help but give her a cocky grin.

"So how long have you wanted to do that?" he teased.

"Since the moment you told me that you're never ready to lose someone," she replied honestly. His face softened, becoming more serious, she shook her head and gave him a teasing grin. "So how long have you wanted to do that?" she mimicked. He laughed.

"Since I saw you screaming at a tombstone," he replied wryly.

She tossed her head back and laughed, and he couldn't help but kiss her again.

They didn't stay friends for long, because they'd always been waiting for this.

* * *

He called too, whenever he could. The phone calls were never as consistent as the notes and salt packets though. Elena knew she could count on a note every other week, but phone calls happened sporadically.

Sometimes he'd call three days in a row and others it would be a week and half before he could. (Once he didn't call for three weeks and it was only the notes that saved Elena from nightmares about burying yet another person she loved.)

In some ways, the calls were more intimate than the notes, he felt less stupid saying sweet things than writing them down, and Elena could stretch out an intended five minute chat into a two hour conversation if she felt like it.

"It's three in the morning, Gilbert," Dean would say, amused and half-asleep.

She'd smirk sleepily into her pillow and slur, "Then go to sleep," not even finishing her sentence before she succumbed to the pull of sleep and he'd stay on the phone for another half-hour just listening to her breathe.

Still, she wouldn't trade more phone calls for the notes. They had a special place in her heart, knowing that he was considerate enough of her worrying about him that he'd make sure she knew he was alive even if he couldn't call.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Writing," she muttered, phone cradled between her chin and shoulder as she tapped away on her keyboard.

"When was the last time you ate?" he questioned, leaning against the car while Sam took his sweet time picking out snacks for the road. He knew how she got when was writing. Time ran away from her.

"Uh, two, I think?" she replied distractedly, only half paying attention to him.

"Elena, it's eight o'clock at night," he reprimanded gently. She blinked, glanced at the clock, seeing that he was right, she winced.

"Okay, I'm going to eat now," she promised. He shook his head in fond exasperation.

"Now Elena," he told her sternly, hearing the telltale _tip-tap_ of her fingers hitting the keyboard.

"I'm just finishing my sentence," she protested.

"Food," he insisted. She rolled her eyes, but closed her laptop.

"I'm going," she promised.

"Good," he replied. She stood up and stretched, leisurely making her way out of her room and down the stairs. She stopped before she reached the kitchen, something occurring to her.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied, bemused.

"We're in the same time-zone," she pointed out, smiling.

He grinned and nodded, despite the fact that she couldn't see him.

"Yeah, we are," he agreed.

* * *

She told him her story in increments. He found out that most of her friends were— _not_ human, pretty quickly, and while it was alarming to him, he got used to it, but the rest of her story came slowly.

The car accident that took her parents from her was also the night Stefan saved her, bringing her into a world she had always hovered unaware at its edge. The confusing months leading to her discovery of vampires and witches (and werewolves and doppelgangers, but that was much, much later) were told with matter-of-fact calm.

It was only when it came time to divulge her own supernatural ancestry that she found it difficult to find the words. He'd already seen the scars on her neck, drawn his own conclusions, but held his breath while he waited for her to tell him what had really happened.

His story was easy really, he'd told it like a what-did-you-do-this-summer-?-essay. No embellishments, and painfully aware of how bleak it sounded out loud. But her eyes were overflowing with understanding as usual and he remembered his first assessment of her—that she was the kind of girl you could drown in. He'd never been more right, and he knew he'd gladly dive headfirst into those eyes every time.

She took her time, with her story. She told him about the Gilberts—their crusade against the creatures of the night that spanned centuries, how her uncle had raised her as his own, how her father(s) had died for her. How Jenna had taken care of Jeremy and her to the best of her ability. How badly it had hurt to lose her. And then Alaric had stepped up to the plate and taken them in, how he'd trained Elena and Jeremy to be able to handle themselves against all the monsters in the night. How he'd died half insane from a ring that brought him back from the dead too many times.

There were chunks missing, things that didn't make sense. The scars on her neck, trips to New Orleans that she looked to with grim determination and yet consistent resolve. How no matter how many vampires traipsed through her town, none of them dared laid a finger on her. How werewolves treated her with something akin to reverence.

When she got to the part about Katherine, it explained a little, and yet he didn't fully believe until he was staring down a girl that wore Elena's face and no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find a single difference in their faces.

Still, there was something missing, and he knew it was big. There was something more to the story than just vampire ex-boyfriends (vampire best friends), werewolf childhood playmates. Something more than just doppelgangers with five hundred years separating them.

She couldn't find the words to explain it to him for a long time, and he'd long since passed the end of his patience. The only thing that kept him from demanding she tell him was that he knew whatever it was; it was the defining moment of her life. To her, life was nothing before it, and everything after was dictated by this unknown event.

It was late at night, and she'd been curled up on her window seat for hours after he'd gone to sleep before she crawled back into bed with him. It was only when he was half-awake, her head pressed to his chest, his fingers in her hair, that she finally found the words.

"I died when I was seventeen," she started, and he felt his blood freeze.

His fingers were still tangled in her hair, but all movement had ceased. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing. She kept talking, her voice quiet and measured.

It all came spilling out. The curse of the sun and moon, Klaus's hunt for her. Discovering why she shared a face with a woman who was five hundred years older than her. Her desperate suicide mission to protect her family. That fateful night when she'd lost Jenna and Klaus had sunk his teeth into her and drained her to the point of death. How John had given his life in exchange for hers.

The months of guilt and confusion before Klaus and Stefan had returned only to discover that her blood was the final key to create an entire species. How they'd spent months and months trying to kill Klaus only to discover that killing him could mean killing most of her friends. How she'd called for peace and offered him what he'd wanted all along—her compliance.

"When I go to New Orleans, I give him my blood, in exchange for the safety of my friends and family," she told him, her voice low and hard, ready for his condemnation. That was what she was expecting—she didn't think he could understand how she could let Klaus use her blood to create monsters. "And for my freedom too," she added solemnly, unflinchingly. "As long as I play by his rules, I don't have to stay there, I can come home."

She waited, curiously calm in the face of her revelation. He stayed very quiet and very still, barely breathing, trying to process what she'd told him. He was still stuck on her first words.

 _I died when I was seventeen._

He remembered the time before the reaper, when he'd been so sure he was finally going to die. Part of him wanted to ask what it had been like, to die, but the rest of him raged against the idea that she—she who was warm and soft in his arms, she who was vibrant and full of life—had died.

Could he really condemn her for doing what she had to do to keep the ones she loved safe?

At last, his fingers resumed their gentle stroking of her hair, his other hand resting on her hip. He could feel her muscles relax, one by one.

"What were you thinking, stabbing yourself in the stomach?" he berated her lightly, grasping blindly at something to say. What else was there to say?

She smiled against his chest, relieved and comforted by his unspoken acceptance.

"I was thinking that he shouldn't have called my bluff," she admitted bluntly.

He let out a bark of disbelieving laughter.

She smiled again, melting into his side, and he couldn't help but marvel at the warmth of her skin and the steady beating of her heart that he could feel against his ribcage.

He slid his fingers under the hem of her shirt, tracing his fingers all along her smooth skin, marveling at every rib, every delicate curve and slim muscle. She propped her chin on his chest and looked at him with appraising eyes.

"Are you freaking out?" she asked.

"Just a little bit," he admitted, and then he pulled her up for a kiss. She seemed to understand what he was trying to say, because she crawled into his lap and kissed him back with equal fervency.

Every kiss and every touch said _I love you,_ and when he pressed his mouth to the scars on her neck she got the message loud and clear.

 _I'm glad you lived._

* * *

Dean had his own key to the Gilbert house. Sometimes, Sam thought he found it weirder than Dean himself did.

It was for practicality's sake, really. See, usually by the time they made it Virginia, it was pretty late, and Dean never wanted to crash at a motel until morning. So Elena's easy solution was to give him his own key. Maybe Dean freaked out about it for half a second, but really, it was the simplest thing to do.

No one had to be woken up in the middle of the night to let them in; they could just slip in and crash without disturbing anybody. It was for practicality's sake, really. Never mind that both Sam and Dean knew the layout of that house perfectly even in the dark, never mind that Sam realized he'd left more and more of his things laying around the house. Never mind that every time Dean slid into bed with Elena after a long hunt he couldn't help but think of it as _their_ bed.

Never mind that when Elena decided that they should repaint the whole house—some attempt at giving herself and Jeremy a fresh start or a fresh perspective on their childhood home—both Sam and Dean had been allowed veto power when it came to color schemes.

When it came to the actual painting of the house, all of Elena's friends were coerced into helping. Jeremy ordered pizza and Tyler brought beer, Elena wisely tricked Damon into making his famous peach pie. Caroline made sure the music never stopped. It was half party and half serious painting.

At some point—while Bonnie was bullying Sam into painting the trim and Jeremy was refilling paint trays—Damon snuck up behind Stefan and finger-painted a frowny-face on the back of his shirt. It went on for nearly thirty minutes, Stefan would turn his back to someone, and they'd all start laughing, until finally Caroline took mercy on the poor guy and told him.

At the end of the day everyone was sprawled on the floor—still covered in plastic and newspaper—and Elena was draped over Dean, half-asleep on his chest. Everything smelled like paint, and all the pizza and beer and pie were gone. Damon was spread out like a starfish, trying to get them all to join him in a rousing round of ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.

Without moving or raising her head, Elena asked, "Who the fuck showed Damon where the bourbon was hidden?"

There was resounding silence for a moment and then everyone was laughing. Bonnie cackled harder than anyone—guaranteeing that she was indeed the one who'd let it slip that there was still a bottle of bourbon hidden in the study—and Jeremy was wiping tears from his eyes.

Elena laughed too, and Dean could feel her laughter shaking all through her body and that only made him laugh _harder_.

While he was lying there on the floor, covered in paint and laughing, it occurred to him that this felt an awful lot like home. The girl sprawled across his chest was mostly responsible for that, and for some reason that only made him laugh even harder. Who would've ever thought that this would be his life?

Little did he know, across the room, sprawled on his stomach and hiccupping hysterically, Sam was thinking something similar. Caroline was stretched out perpendicular to him and half his head was covered in neat, tiny braids because it turned out that saying no to Caroline Forbes was harder than the LSATs. There, laughing on the living room floor because Damon was a drunk and Elena was everyone's mom, Sam realized that he actually felt like he fit there, with all of them.

They weren't there all the time—still spent most of their time on the road, but something about Mystic Falls made sense for them, and maybe it had more to do with Elena than anything else, but that didn't change that feeling at all.

All Sam knew was that the librarians knew him by name and Mrs. Lockwood was trying to bully him into taking part in the annual fundraiser bachelor auction, and if that wasn't home, then he didn't know what was.

All Dean knew was that the key to the Gilberts' house on his keychain—right next to the impala's key—felt a bit like a talisman when they were on the road. Like a guarantee that there was somewhere to stop and rest—and someone waiting for him to come back, and if that wasn't home, then he didn't know what was.

Somewhere along the way, the Winchester brothers had found their home.

* * *

"Tell me a story," Elena said and Dean could only raise a questioning eyebrow at her.

It's late—closer to morning than night, but neither one of them have particularly good sleeping habits, so it's not unusual that while they are in bed, neither one of them are even close to sleeping.

"You're the writer," he reminded her.

She shook her head, propping her chin on her hands, comfortably folded on his chest. She tapped her big toe against his calf in a mild reproach.

"Writers like hearing stories too," she told him solemnly.

He gave her an amused half-grin. He knew better than to argue with her when she got into one of her strange moods like this, so instead, he tried to think of a story to tell.

"All right, I'll tell you a story," he agreed. She smiled happily at him.

"No monsters, or tragic endings, Winchester," she instructed. He gave her a disbelieving look.

"I don't think I know a story without either one of those," he admitted. She rolled her eyes.

"Those are my rules. No supernatural nonsense, and it has to have a happy ending," she insisted.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, tapping his fingers on her hip, combing through his memory for a story that didn't include supernatural monsters or a horrible ending. At first, he couldn't think of any—all the stories he'd been told as a kid were based off both of those things. Just when he was about to give up and spout some Disney bullshit at her, he remembered a story from his elementary school days.

"All right, this is a story I heard when I was kid in school," he started. She curled into his embrace, listening with rapt attention.

"Once there was a rich man, and he had three daughters. One day he decided to find out how much they loved him. So he called them in to see him, one by one," he told her. He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember the details of the half-forgotten story.

"He asked the first one, 'How much do you love me, my dear?' and she said, "Why, as I love my life.'"

Elena watched his face as he told the story, studying the lines of his face and the way he frowned in concentration every once in a while, trying to remember the story.

"He asked the next one, 'How much do you love me, my dear?' and she said, 'Why, better than all the world.'"

He looked over at her, to see if she was paying attention—or if she'd gotten bored. He grinned at her absorbed expression.

"Some flowery bullshit," he remarked under his breath and she gave him a scolding look.

She poked him in the arm. "Keep going," she insisted, laying her cheek against his chest. He rolled his eyes but reached up to run his fingers through her hair and complied.

"He turned to the final one, and asked, 'How much do you love me, my dear?' and she said, 'Why, I love you as meat loves salt.' And this rich guy, he's so furious that she'd compare love to something as common as salt, so he kicks her out—his own kid."

Elena raised an eyebrow at him.

"I did say it had to a have a happy ending, didn't I?" she reminded him archly. He gave her a reproachful look.

"Story's not over yet, 'Lena," he reminded her, tugging gently on the end of her hair.

She made a funny face at him, but let him continue.

"I kinda don't remember what happens in the middle," he admitted sheepishly. She snorted a little.

"But I do know she met some rich guy—a prince I think—and they were getting married. She found out her dad was gonna be one of the guests, so she told the cooks to not add any salt to any of the food. The cooks looked at her like she was batshit, but they did what she said. During the wedding feast, everyone was eating and trying to be polite because it was so gross, but one guy was just, sobbing.

"And everyone was like, 'what's wrong? What's wrong?' So he tells them, 'I once had a daughter that told me she loved me as meat loves salt, and I didn't understand it until now, but I lost her,' because it was the girl's dad, right? And so the girl stood up and said 'fear not, father, I am here and all is forgiven,' and they all lived happily ever after," he finished. Elena smiled.

"That's a nice story," she murmured against his chest, and he recognized the slur in her voice and the way her eyelids were drooping, knew she was gonna fall asleep.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, smoothing his fingers through her hair.

"Love you," she sighed, more asleep than awake.

"I love you," he replied, but she was already asleep.

She shifted closer and sighed just a little in her sleep and he smiled.

"Love like salt, what a concept," he muttered, wondering why his teacher had chosen to tell them that story in the first place.

* * *

Elena's friends were weird. It's one of the hardest parts of being with her—understanding that not only were most of her friends monsters—actual monsters, the kind he hunted—but that they really did love her.

There were Damon and Stefan, who were century and a half old vampires who would not only kill for her but die for her, and Caroline who had lost her life at the hands of a woman who wore Elena's face but stood by Elena through all her pain and sorrow. Tyler who was half werewolf and half vampire, all because of the blood running in Elena's veins but he still looked at her as the girl he'd known his entire life. Even Bonnie was a witch from a very ancient, very powerful bloodline, and she loved Elena like a sister.

But then again, Elena herself was not untainted by the supernatural; she was, by definition, a supernatural occurrence. She was the Petrova doppelganger, her blood was spilled to unleash Klaus's werewolf side, and her blood was needed to finish the transition from werewolf to hybrid. The truth was, even if Elena didn't have a bunch of supernatural friends, she would never be free of their world.

Her life was defined by it, and maybe that was the easiest part about being with her. There was never a struggle or disconnect when it came to that, they both knew that this wasn't a world they could leave behind. At least with each other, they knew it would never come down to that choice between who they loved and the world they lived in. They intersected perfectly.

Dean might not always be comfortable with the fact that most of Elena's friends were monsters, but he was quick to learn that they were the ones who had stuck with her through every loss and every struggle. They were her family as much as she was theirs.

* * *

The salt packets started as a joke, as a do-you-remember? kind of thing. Dean was jotting down his note at the counter of a fast food joint and Sam was glaring holes in his head. Dean finished the note and folded it before tucking it into an envelope, writing the address from memory. Sam was still pouting—he hadn't wanted to come there in the first place, so impulsively Dean picked up a salt packet and flicked it at his head.

"Dean!" Sam protested as he snickered and picked up another salt packet to launch his next attack. "Dean, don't you dare get us kicked out of here," Sam hissed. "You're the one who wanted to come here in the first place," he added.

"You're no fun," Dean protested, but he lowered his hand. He was about to toss the salt packet back down onto the counter, but he remembered the story he'd told Elena—about love like salt. He grinned a little, remembering another thing about salt—salt was pure; it was protection against all the things in the dark. With a chuckle, he tucked two of the salt packets into the envelope with his note.

"Salt packets? Why are you sending her salt packets?" Sam asked, wondering if his brother had somehow lost it.

"Inside joke," Dean said with a grin. "She'll know what I mean."

Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow. "If you say so."

* * *

She did, for the record, get the joke, instantly, and it brought the stupidest smile to her face so really there were only a couple of moments where it was an inside joke before Bonnie demanded she spill.

"You're smiling at those salt packets like they're a diamond ring, so spill," Bonnie insisted. Elena shook her head.

"It's an inside joke," she told her. "He told me this story once, about a girl who told her father that she loved him like meat loves salt and he didn't understand until he had meat without salt," she explained.

Bonnie aw'ed. "So he loves you," she said, happy for her friend.

"I already knew that, he's already told me that," Elena pointed out. Bonnie rolled her eyes.

"Yeah but even you have to admit those notes he writes you are like the least romantic thing ever, no sweet gushing words or any of that wonderful sappy bullshit," Bonnie said.

Elena shook her head.

"He's really not that kind of guy," she reminded her. "Besides, they're not love notes, they're more like 'hey-I'm-not-dead' notes," she added.

"Well I guess that's weirdly sweet," she conceded. "But I still think the salt packets are more romantic."

Elena rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious Elena! He saying 'I love you' through cute inside jokes, that's romantic," Bonnie affirmed. "Not to mention, salt is considered 'pure' and is used to repel certain supernatural beings and as protection, from a hunter that's practically the sweetest thing he could give you."

Elena laughed but nodded. "Yeah, it is sweet," she agreed, a warm little smile on her lips.

"We totally have to call Caroline."

"Bonnie, you gossip!"

* * *

Dean was in the kitchen getting a piece of pie when Bonnie wandered in, in search of something to drink. After pouring herself a glass of water she hopped onto the counter and watched Dean as he cut his piece of pie and absentmindedly put everything back where it came from.

"So are you used to it yet?" she asked him, and feeling just a little bit like he was being cornered, he raised a questioning eyebrow at her. "The fact that all of your girlfriend's friends are dangerous monsters?" she elaborated.

He frowned contemplatively.

"Matt's pretty harmless," he argued, and she cracked a smile at that, but gave him a probing look, and he heaved a burdened sigh, recognizing that he wouldn't be able to avoid answering her question. "I mean, it's not like I'm just finding out about monsters for the first time, so I can deal," he answered. She frowned, recognizing his neat evasion.

"You didn't answer my question," she replied bluntly. "You're a hunter, and the girl you're dating is friends with vampires, witches, and hybrids, how do you feel about that?" she asked.

He sighed. "You're not my friends, you're hers. I'm not gonna tell her what to do or who to be friends with. She's known you guys a long time and she trusts you. I can see you care about her, so I'm gonna get used to it."

He looked at her expectantly, wondering if his answer had satisfied her.

"So you're not used to it yet?" she asked. He snorted.

"No, not yet," he told her. She nodded, almost satisfied.

"The vampires and hybrids aren't the scary ones you know," she told him sedately. "You've seen what a witch can do to a supernatural creature, imagine what we could do to a human?"

With that, she hopped off the counter and slipped out of the room, taking her glass of water with her.

"Did I just get shovel talked?" Dean asked the empty room.

* * *

Every other week Elena got a letter. It wasn't really a letter, just an envelope with a piece of paper—one torn from those pads of paper you find in hotel rooms—and a line or two scribbled down, and his name signed at the bottom, like she might not know who was writing her. Dean. That was all. Four letters. She smiled every time. Just an envelope and a sentence or two on hotel stationary.

And salt packets. There were always a couple of salt packets tucked into the envelope, and those made Elena smile most of all.

"That is the sweetest thing," Bonnie murmured to Caroline and the blonde nodded in agreement.

"It's like the most romantic thing since the Notebook," Caroline gushed. Bonnie giggled, but nodded her head. The two girls were seated in the Gilbert's kitchen, drinking tea and watching as Elena reread the few lines Dean managed to scribble down, a soft small on her face, and the salt packets tucked into her palm.

Damon sat across from them, and he couldn't help but stare at them like they'd stepped off the deep end.

"What's romantic about salt packets?" he asked incredulously. The two girls turned to look at him.

Bonnie looked at him with something akin to pity in her eyes. Caroline's own baby blues were widened in disbelief.

"Everything," they answered as one.

 **THE END**

 **AN: Okay well that's done. The story Dean told Elena is an english folk story, the one I used as reference is called Cap O' Rushes, which is part of the middle bit that Dean couldn't remember/skipped over. I heard a variation of this story as a kid in school and so did my friend, which we thought was pretty cool because we grew up in completely different states. Anyway, I thought it was plausible that Dean might've heard it at some point. Anyway, reviews are always appreciated.**

 **xoxo**

 **-Pixie**


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